


(probably tame)

by freakedelic



Series: Tumblr Prompts [8]
Category: Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Cockwarming, Degradation, Fucked Up Domesticity, M/M, Trans Dick Grayson, Vaginal Sex, slade watches veep (no i will not elaborate), this is fluffy i am really feeling the fluff rn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22399531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakedelic/pseuds/freakedelic
Summary: This isn’t … terrible. Robin has learned to judge his life in terms of bad and worse, and this isn’t worse.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Tumblr Prompts [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1288667
Comments: 4
Kudos: 293





	(probably tame)

**Author's Note:**

> my dumb ass finally writes something. please take this offering of my love of Them . . .. sladin is in l*ve 2k20. yes there is still rape. no i do not take constructive criticism.
> 
> [ anon: hi!! for a porn prompt could i suggest slade using dick as a fucktoy? maybe just sitting around using him as a cockwarmer or fucking him casually whenever he wanted kfngkn. ]

One thing becomes apparent as Robin fades his way into consciousness, the last trappings of a dream fading back into the depths of his mind - he aches. It’s a steady, deep ache, in between his thighs. It shifts every time he does, Robin finding out that it’s not going away.

He opens his eyes. All he can see is a half-obscured view of across the room. It gets better when he raises his head with a mumbled sound. The shift in his weight sends that _ache_ through him again, desperate and deep. Slade’s heavy arms box him in on either side, and Robin can hear television vaguely in the background. A hand is warm on the back of his neck.

The ache in him, Robin realizes, is Slade’s cock. He remembers being fucked, then, still impaled, pulled against Slade’s chest. The dozing off had been an accident, but Robin’s glad he wasn’t awoken again. Slade’s sleep schedule is erratic at best, and Robin hasn’t been sleeping well.

He adjusts, a little, to find an angle that doesn’t hurt. It’s not much better, so he tries to put more weight on his thighs, pull himself up. Slade’s hand on the back of his neck presses him back down firmly. Even if Robin didn’t know better than to fight, he wouldn’t be able too - Slade is too strong and the angle is terrible.

This isn’t … terrible. Robin has learned to judge his life in terms of _bad_ and _worse_ , and this isn’t worse. If he tries to make it better, it will get worse. That truth has been shown over, and over, and over. He sighs, head falling against Slade’s pectoral again. Robin wants to go back to sleep, but he doesn’t know if he can.

On impulse, he asks, “What are you watching?” Slade’s hand tightens on the back of his neck and for a second Robin thinks he’s made a mistake and opens his mouth to beg forgiveness, but Slade responds neutrally.

“Some dumbass cop show.” Slade’s fingers card idly through his hair. He doesn’t seem to be conscious of it, after this long. Robin supposes he isn’t either. It’s become part of his routine. Before, he had resisted any physical contact with Slade, but now he hears the beat of Slade’s heart and leans into his warmth like someone desperately seeking comfort.

Robin loathes that, deep in himself, where the boy he remembers being lives. But he doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything to stop Slade from touching him, from holding him, from being inside him. The alternative is being alone. It’s worse. Robin’s checked.

Instead, he tries to move his hips again, to try to relax the pain. Robin feels Slade stiffen inside him and stops instantly, eyes wide.

“Are you looking to get fucked?” Slade asks lazily. Robin shakes his head in shivery motions. _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck._

“No, I didn’t mean - ”

“Then stop rolling your hips like a little slut.” Slade is irritated. It sends a pang through Robin’s body. He wants to apologize. Robin holds the feeling, examining it and turning it over in his mind. It can’t be discarded. It must be endured. 

Slade’s hand traces the bumps of his spine idly. Robin shivers as the fingers move down his body. Slade’s fingers clamp onto his hips in a vice grip.

“What the hell,” Slade mutters. His next hand moves before Robin can react.

“Please,” he whines, but Slade is already pulling his hips up. Slade’s cock slips out of him a few inches, slick with fluid. It pushes into Robin again, and he arches. He doesn’t get time to recover before Slade’s pulling him down onto his cock again. It’s all Robin can do to bite back his cries.

Slade seems to sense it. He slams harder, crueler. Robin’s breath chokes past his lips, an _ah_ , _ah_ sound as Slade moves in and out of him. It’s barely louder than the slap of flesh against flesh. It stretches his cunt, wide to the size that Slade has molded it into, aching against the sides. Robin’s perfectly slick around him, perfectly easy.

Maybe he should be grateful that he’s always wet when Slade fucks him. All Robin can feel, though, is a dull hatred towards himself for giving in so easy - even involuntarily. Sometimes, Robin will move to get Slade off quicker, but it’s hard to do when Slade is fucking him. Instead he just clenches down, feeling the shaft aching inside of him.

“You want it, you little slut?” Slade sounds more amused than anything. Robin shakes his head again, but Slade is going faster. Another sound slips out of his mouth, this one a choked moan. Slade slams inside him in the same spot, again, just to hear Robin’s choked groans.

_You will do whatever amuses me,_ Slade is saying. _I can do whatever I like with you_.

Robin moans again. He’s totally slick now, Slade moving with ease, Robin spreading his legs so it hurts less every time he moves. Slade’s teeth worry at the side of his neck, painting themselves in the purple and green of other bruises that taint his body.

Robin wants this to be over - wants to reach down and touch his clit to make it stop aching, but he knows that if he does, Slade will punish him. Maybe he’ll break his fingers, or pull out his fingernails, or keep his hands bound for weeks. All he can do is whine into the air as the heat burning in him takes over. Slade bites down. Robin feels his tongue lapping at the blood as he moves, Slade inside him over and over again, brushing against oversensitive nerves.

Slade doesn’t say much. Not as much as he used to, the constant stream of degradation and humiliation. Now he’s silent, because Robin is his toy, and he has no reason to talk to a toy. Just reason to use it, mercilessly and selfishly. That doesn’t stop Robin’s body from responding in the worst of ways - doesn’t stop him from spasming as Slade fucks him through his orgasm.

Robin’s mouth falls open, saliva wet on his tongue, eyes half-lidded. In that half-second of pleasure, he’s not impaled on his enemy’s cock, coming like he wants it. He’s somewhere else entirely, somewhere where it doesn’t hurt quite as much.

“Look at you,” Slade murmurs, low and pleased. “You still trying to pretend you’re not a little slut?” Robin shudders, Slade still fucking in and out of him but instead of pleasure, this time it’s just _too much_ , over and over, tongue lolling as small gasps leave his mouth. His hands grab at Slade’s white shirt, clinging to the fabric around his shoulders, rocking back and forth. It’s the only stability he gets as Slade moves inside him.

It’s a relief when he feels Slade come deep inside him, the warmth filling him up. Robin falls against Slade’s chest, panting. He sucks in deep breaths, hands still fisted in Slade’s shirt.

A rough hand brushes the sweat off of his chin, pressing his head back so Slade can look at him. “What are you out of breath for?” Slade murmurs. “ _I_ did all the work.” Robin stares at him, unsure if he wants an answer. Slade sounds more amused than angry. Fucking Robin usually puts him in a good mood. Robin certainly doesn’t dare move with Slade still in him, even while come leaks down to stain his thighs.

Slade lets him go. The TV blares its senseless sounds, aching in the back of Robin’s mind. Robin’s face falls back against Slade’s chest, Slade still sheathed firmly inside him. It aches, but Robin can grow used to it. From here he swears he can hear Slade’s heartbeat, a _bump bump bump_ that thrums against his cheek. Slade smells of mint and sweat and high-end shampoo, achingly familiar even if not quite comforting.  
  
Robin feels his lids slipping down again. His hands haven’t move from Slade’s shoulders, breathing evening. Robin doesn’t even twitch as a hand moves to the back of his neck, warm and calloused and familiar, fingers carding fondly through his hair.


End file.
